Needle House Nail Boys (First Chapter)
The first chapter from my in progress novel of the same name. It's more or less "Tetsuo: The Iron Man" meets "The Warriors".
The blackness of space always made Brick sleepy, so he napped through most of the tram ride on the outside ring. The combination of the void, the glimmering stars, the gentle spears of light that shot by, usually shipments coming and going, and the eternal hum of the station always reminded Brick of an old comfort program he had been programed into sleeping under in his kidbox days. A flick of the switch and the cold drab plastic room turned into a version of the stars and he would drift into sleep nestled in the dark caressing nothing. Like now. He only awoke from the rough prod of a station police force stooge at another checkpoint trap for stripwalkers, a nice big motherfucker made up of canvas, armor, and pig face. Three other SPF officers, or spiffboys, were standing behind the first one, batons ready in hand, though one had a googun. However, Brick flipped them his statuspill, embedded in a nice stiff, thick brown middle finger, and the SPF boys sagged slightly in disappointment, having fingered the napping Brick as a stripwalker. One of them became alarmed, however, a flash of nervousness at the look of the man before him, the status, and the conclusion: nailboy.
They did get one though: Towards the back of the tram, a skinny man in an outdated suit (dead giveaway) tried to run (as if there was somewhere to go) and was promptly thudded several times by falling batons, cocooned in goo, and carried off. The wagejoes on the tram didn’t respond. Most didn’t care or were just glad the spiffboys found something to beat and keep them from looking further for one, as most of the wagejoes were carriers of the contra and info kinds for extra cash. Low hanging fruit, but fruit nonetheless. Brick had gone back to sleep as the tram kept on… The tram was a cheap plastic bullet in perpetual motion, incased in a thick layer of metal and glass, easy sights into the void beyond, running along the inside of a sizable ring station encircling the dwarf planet Ceres. The station was designated the Sam Walton Shipping Center Satellite 28 (SWSCS-28). Not a fucking person on the station knew who this Sam clown was.
SWSCS-28 was a glorified shipping warehouse, miles and miles of automated shipping halls and lines and a constant trickle of starships and shipping freighters floating in and out of its many ports on the outside. A stop on the grand Walton Family Milky Way Pathway (WFMWP) that stretched from Earth to the frontier at the edges of the solar system, where the interesting colonies were being made. The ring station was a gently rotating halo of paneled steel and glass about 2,570 miles (4136 kilometers) in diameter, 750 miles (1207 kilometers) in height. The tram and countless like it, ran along its diameter with the odd SPF express cruisers catching up, latching onto the tram like a parasite to fish for stripwalkers, and retreating into one of many adjacent tunnels for find another tram on a lower level of the station. Just below the surface of the interior where the many trams ran was the clusters—residential areas for the employees on the station, consisting of webs of metal alveoli, spherical cells the size of a decently sized city divided and stacked on top of itself in layers. Layers like a shitcake, many of the others living in Brick’s cell joked, usually prompted by a looping seminar on the tram’s feeds intended on new arrivals that had never appeared in about a century.
Once Brick was nearing his stop, he was gently extracted by a parasite shuttle and shipped to the proper station, where he eventually disembarked after a drone prodded him awake.
The lights of 7787 were at full brightness, a temporary bounty from a decent shipping season, so Brick squinted as he ambled into the cell proper: Brick was a baked clay boy with a shaved head like a bullet, pale green peepers, square jaw, mashed nose, and linebacker build (though that didn’t mean shit these days…), all wrapped up in the standard blue industrial worker suit and rubber boots. However, the suit top was separate from the pants, worn with the front open, ragged, draped over a striped undershirt, decorated in numerous pins, needles, spikes and other pieces of metal like some cheap denim jacket analog. The pants were the same, studded with metal, snugly fit on his legs. Brick was known for his skin color, dark reddish-brown, and his size, having evolved from continuous comments of being built like a ‘brick shithouse.’ Ironically, there was very little brick to be found on the clusters, except maybe in Jobland and general suitwalker territory and nobody got in there without a good long hard credit check.
The shift was starting, so the wagejoes were coming out in full force, a shuffling horde of jumpsuits and helmets, blank and white as a suitwalker shitter, filing into the shuttles like cattle to be sent around on the trams. 7787 was a grimy cell, like most on the lower cluster—walls, floors, and ceilings were made of the same dingy white plaster and foam, a mess of jumbled buildings piled on top of one another. From a far, the cell’s level looked like the dumpsite of countless cartons, initially organized towards the bottom, now dumped and tossed on towards the top, stretching across the horizon, under a ragged metal and plaster ceiling where the shell of the cell showed through. To a suitwalker, it was hell, a bottom end shithole they couldn’t be dare seen in. To a nailboy, it was a beautiful home and playground, owing mostly due to the exposed pieces of metal and industrial innards that poked up through the buildings here and there.
Brick begins ambling, enjoying the downtime, having just finished several days of contracts to keep good for a while, and was looking to see if there had been any interesting developments in the area while he had been on the job. Brick ambled through the neighborhoods where the kids were playing Security Raid, one group as a trade clan, the other as a platoon of for hire secboys, running around with sticks and metal whacking one another… The kids, little ragamuffin goblins in dirty smocks, barely paid heed to Brick as he ambled by… but they did stop when they heard the distinct clomp of the Cluster Engineers coming out for a job. Nearby was a big pillar of metal that shot up to the ceiling, vanishing into the decaying tiles. Up this pillar climbed a big bulbous golem of white metal, barely humanoid, a single black hole for a face, trailed by several service drones and machines either climbing behind or floating nearby.
The kids immediately disassembled, breaking from their game and darting into their hovels like dirty blurs… and then emerging carrying pieces of metal, converging together… Within seconds a shuffling group of bodies parts to reveal a sizable potato gun consisting of a large metal pipe with various fixtures, standing on two salvaged kickstands. The kids began manning it artillery style, one loading via a small chamber on the back, two aiming by turning the barrel, one looking out, another creating a small fire while, all while several others watch… Soon the barrel rings out with a soft pop and flare, and something cracks sharply against the pillar just feet from the engineer… The kids move, aiming, reloading, and fire again, this time it hits dead on, striking the golem in the side. There are other pops now from around the neighborhood, other potato guns manned by kid platoons, a few gunshots from bored residents, and many of these shots are dead on, hitting the engineer on all sides—but the big golem doesn’t respond. Each projectile strikes the bulbous suit and ricochets off, even the bigger projectiles do little but bounce. The engineer goes about his day unaffected.
Brick ambles slightly slower, watching as the Cluster Engineer continues his climb up the pillar as bullets and projectiles bounce off the suit, zero reaction aside from the drones or machines that move erratically out of the way… The morning’s shots end when either the engineer gets too high up for their firepower… or the many still sleeping mothers come out in droves, creating a howl of motherly anger that rises above the pops, quieting the air, and making the kids scatter like roaches. It always makes Brick chuckle.
He passes by the first other nailboy of the day, working on a skeleton for some new houses, an impish, pale boy in the same blue metal studded suit, seated upon a beam, dips his finger into solid metal as if it was made of butter, hollowing it out and then, after pulling his finger out, slides in a large bolt, turning it with slow twists. The nailboy sees Brick as he goes by and gives a subtle nod, a respectful acknowledgment, when they meet eyes. The studded metal on Brick’s ‘jacket’ is the same as any other nailboy… only there’s a single piece of platinum on his chest, right above the heart, gleaming and glossy, easy to spot as a nailboy. It’s a foreman’s mark. Lead nailboy, boss of a chapter, even if it’s not his. Brick says nothing and goes on his way, content with the nailboy’s acknowledgement of his status. An unbusy nailboy that gave no greeting usually meant something bad was about to happen to a foreman, either challenge or execution, the subtlest of warnings. Even after seven good quarters, it still happened, even to him. Chances were, he would never be knocked off of foreman for maybe another forty quarters if he didn’t get put among the elders first. Helped to know in advance though.
Among the still moving lines of wagejoes, Brick catches the familiar blue jackets and shining metal studs and stops to eye a full nailboy chapter marching to what was no doubt a big contract job. They moved single file, carrying big wraps of metal and accompanied by a few carts and drones carrying materials. Leading the group was an Amazonian nailgirl foreman by the name of Strutter, named for her overcompetency in mapping out where struts in any building would go, and an ironic reference to her clumsy bow-legged gait. Strutter was a beefy white girl with a bulbous nose (having been repeatedly smashed and resmashed in various fights), a short shag of dirty blonde hair and blank brown eyes, considerably shorter than the nailboys she led, but squat and thick. When she started rumbling, she moved like a wrecking ball.
“Fresh contract, Strut?” Brick called out, slowing, idly wondering if she had been the one who clamped that chastity cage on his dick when he was passed out during that big shindig the other week… There was no indication, as Strutter turned, almost knocking her boys about with the beam she was carrying, and smiled wide.
“Hiya, shithouse! Done already?” she called, no smugness or shyness in her face. Besides, remembering now, Brick recalled Stutter liked punking around softboys and girls than shithouses like Brick.
“Good for a few quarters,” Brick replied, crossing a street to meet Strutter on the sidewalk. “ACS shitheads are up to something again, I’m sure. Tried to snake out no less than five fucking contracts from me. Gave em’ hell till they caved.”
Strutter chuckled. “You knock a few?”
“A few that tried to… dissuade me in an alleyway,” Brick replied with a big grin.
“Ha!” Strutter laughed and started off again. “Have a good one Brick! Take it easy, if you can!”
Brick frowned, watching Strutter’s nailboys hurry off after her.
“Why? What’s up?”
“Stome’s coming to collect soon!” Strutter called out, making Brick jerk his head in irritation, being reminded of something he had almost forgotten.
“Fuck!”
Brick stood on the sidewalk, watching the nailboys vanish into the sea of shuffling wagejoes. He sighed.
“Alright…”
Brick continued ambling along, not in any hurry to get to the clubhouse, thinking about Stome’s collection date… It’d probably lead to another job, so no big worry… Stome Orre was the ‘elected’ cell manager for 7787, and was the big ally for the nailboys there. ‘Elected’ (in quotations) because though cell managers were voted for by the people in the cell, only those implicitly connected to vendors and suppliers could actually get the votes. Any wagejoe that got in would quickly find themselves to be helpless without connections and would be swiftly voted out in an emergency election. Of course, wagejoes never tried because no one wanted to run the whole damn cell and deal with the suitwalkers in the process… The situation was like everything on the cluster: You had freedom—freedom to starve, freedom to die, freedom to abide by the carefully designed rules of the cluster… Freedom according to the exact word of the station’s privatized law: interpreted as they saw fit.
The cells themselves were perfect examples of this. Each cell was a massively thick metal shell, upkept by a small group of engineers and a partition of a master AI from the station proper. The cell was no different from every other cell on the cluster, or any cluster on the ring station. Each cell was capable of fully caring for its populace, and were identical to cells inhabited by the suitwalkers. The cells were designed with pure equality in mind. However, there was one catch—the promise of the big companies was exactly that: each cell would function exactly the same… but it was up to inhabitants of each individual cell to ensure the AI partition had the proper resources in order to ensure top quality services and functions for the inhabitants of each cell. Thus, the dilapidated shape of the cell, as a small colony of wagejoes could only contribute enough resources to have their homes and hovels constructed out of cheap alloys, drywall, and recycled aluminum. Again, freedom to have the systems build your homes out of cheap materials. Wasn’t like you could really go elsewhere.
Course, that was why clans like the nailboys existed. The nailboys were construction contractors specializing in metal work of all kinds. 7787 was home to the nailboys of the Needle House—a clan of metal workers as old as the station, well known tradesmen across the station, they had established themselves with ease. That was the unspoken law on the station and the clusters: You had to have a trade, one that filled a need, and allies to keep you afloat. More importantly, you had to be licensed. The nailboys were licensed contract metal workers on paper, but in 7787 they were the protectors, judge, executioner, and handymen all in one. Stome had the nailboys offer a tithe each quarter that went straight into the cell, which established them as the go-to problem solvers for the wagejoes and contractors living in 7787. Most clusters had a clan of tradesmen filling in those necessary societal roles, if not hired security, or functioning organs of the several ruling corporate powers that made use of the station.
Brick was no political boy, but even he knew of the council of twelve—Interstellar Shipping Inc (ISI), Osman Science Experts Expeditions and Services (OSEES), Northstar Arms (NA), 4O Entertainment (4OE), Aerospace Control Systems (ACS), Pennyloaf Household Products (PHP), and the other fuckers (he couldn’t remember as he only learned the names of companies that hired him)—subcorps that served the Walton clan and called the shots. They ran the show, while clans like the nailboys were just fleas in the station’s fur…
However, there were perks: As Brick ambles further, he enters the level’s mall—a series of commerce blocs, the most tastefully decorated area of the cell, stopping when he sees unfamiliar security vehicles parked along the street. A glance from the corner of the eye shows security boys standing in an alley, all suited up in heavy armor and big guns… What the hell were they doing here? Brick frowns, glancing around, hoping to see a nailboy for quick recruitment when he spots one and smiles big at his luck: Just down the road, at a new credit machine installed by the engineers is a thin nailboy the color of chocolate, head tipped with a shock of short dreadlocks. The nailboy is fiddling with the machine, making it light up and blink and all at once Brick recognizes the nailboy as Lobe, one of his boys. Lobe is feeding his finger into the ports, making the machine purr, some of the entrails pouring out of a maintenance panel and merged with a chunk of metal jutting out of his forehead. Lobe is concentrating, fiddling, biting his scarred lip as he usually does when he finds a neat toy to fuck with.
Brick suavely ambles over and approaches, leaning upon the credit machine, chin propped on a fist, and smiles, sitting for a moment before speaking, doing his best to mimic the stiff robotic voice of an autoguard:
“Tampering with a piece of WF equipment is grounds for immediate investigation by a sanctioned shit squad—”
Lobe immediately jumps obviously scrambling to shut down whatever security system only he can see… until he looks up at Brick and sighs with a smile.
“You fucker,” he laughs. “Whatcha doing back so soon, Brick?”
“Contracts went well for once,” Brick replied, sitting up. “By the way, you got some easy drones at the moment?”
“Yeah, why?” Lobe says, looking up, knowing that’s prep code for a rumble. Brick jerks his finger at the security vehicles, making Lobe frown and purse his lips.
“Well, shit. Didn’t see those there before…”
“Others nearby?” Brick says, looking around.
“Yea, a few,” Lobe replies, pointing to around the corner. Brick ambled over to find a five of his boys loitering in the dining area of a closed restaurant. He notes Jacket and Bomber, two close boys with black and brown crewcuts and face tattoos consisting of a single tiger across both their faces, one half per face… Then there was Sleeper, a skinny little blonde doing exactly what her named implied—napping in a chair… the one that made Brick smile big was Body—a big boy, bald, featureless face beyond a thick heavy brow and bulbous nose, sitting uncomfortably in a seat much too small for him… and Edge, a skinny metal studded girl with a short shock of black hair… Sitting crouched atop the chair, talking angrily, viciously…
“—so I pinned his nuts and made him tell me,” Edge was talking, motioning angrily. “Fucker thought twice about trying to pull one on me since then—”
She trailed off, and immediately turned, hearing the soft padding of Brick’s boots… and immediately her sharp, piercing eyes, resting bitch face, lifted a bit.
“Brick! Where you been, boss?!”
The others stirred, alerted. A few offered lazy salutes and smiled big… at least until they saw the expectant, faux-disappointed look on Brick’s face, and his single mockingly angry slap of his hands together.
“You folks aware there are two security shuttles around the corner? And possibly a few suitwalkers?” Brick starts, eyeing them. The nailboys/girls stir and immediately bolt for the corner, each one lining up around the edge to see the security vehicles parked by the alley.
“You guys are getting lazy,” Brick intoned like a mock father. “Lucky for you, I’m in the mood for a tussle…”
Standing by the security vehicles were two secboys, private PMC contractors for ACS called PEMSEC. They stood in the entrance of the alleyway, watching for anyone, mostly the nailboys, who they were vaguely aware of… Behind them was several suitwalkers, sterile looking businessmen in plastic suits, five in total, standing in a circle. Three of them wore the same tone of gray in their suit, identified as ACS office drones, while the other two wore black, identified as NA office drones. Around all five of the suitwalkers were seven more PEMSEC security grunts, figures in heavy metal blue and large silver guns in their hands that stood bored. The NA suitwalkers were talking smooth, addressing others without worry:
“Now that we got the verification shit out of the way, you got the numbers?”
“We have the data,” an ACS suitwalker named Jensen Hock, replied. His face was angular, his build average, his eyes phony blue, hair phony blonde, his skin was hotdog orange, but was glistening with sweat, giving him a fresh ‘from-the-beach’ look. “Dunno why you wanted us to come down here to this shit cell—”
“Handoff’s purely physical,” One of the NA suitwalkers cut in. “You know why. We picked one with low metrics, so we’ll be fine.”
“Low metrics ‘cause of nothing or a good clan?” One of the ACS suits replied, jabbing a thumb at the street.
“Does it matter?” the NA suit replied. “We’re already past the average assault time. Let’s make the trade and then we’ll split… Ok? Quit acting like pussies.”
“Whatever, starting transfer,” the last ACS suit started. Hock swallowed, glancing around, not convinced at the NA boys’ assurances. They did weapons, not numbers. ACS did numbers, but knew what they fucking meant. Not every clan did exactly what the numbers said… Hock watched the last suit dial in the proper encryption methods while kneeling, allowing the little machine in his back to a better signal.
Next to them, the PEMSEC troops shuffled in place, conversating via their helmet radios, obviously bored:
“—so, she stuffs another one in and has trouble keeping them in—” one of them explains jovially, excitedly, earning laughter from the other grunts, though a few of them laugh with a tinge of disgust.
“How many was there to start?” one grunt asks, laughing. The storytelling one goes to answer when the two grunts at the end of the alley suddenly report, alarmed.
“Hey, our vision just got hit, prepare for—”
One of the grunts turns and mutters aloud.
“What in the fuck is that…?”
The alley’s poorly lit as half the lights don’t work, but from the shadows appears a humanoid made of gleaming spikes several inches in length, trotting on over smoothly, casually, past the two grunts at the end of the alley, who are now sagging, alarms ringing out, taking casualties from the other spiky humanoids who seem to be driving long spikes through their bodies through the armor—
“Contact!” A grunt bellows, both on the radio and out loud, making the suits jump, right before his silver rifle comes up and bellows gunfire.
Hock turns, explosion of panic making the sweat really come, and backs to the wall of the little alley way he realizes is a fucking one-way deathtrap—real fucking goddamn smart of these Arms fuckheads to hold a motherfucking swap here— The grunts immediately take positions and begin firing at what looks like a man made of spikes rushing at them, followed by several more, and the suitwalkers all begin wetting their inner layers with sweat as they retreat to a corner or behind a dumpster—
This turns out to be a good idea as the first shots hit the spiky humanoid… and ricochet off what is solid metal, a few rounds deflected off the dumpster and into a NA suit’s arm, who squawks in surprise and pain—The spiky humanoid, turning out to be much bigger up close, casually storms up to the first of the grunts and immediately swings a spike studded limb, connecting to the torso with a flat thud and squeak, followed by the radios blowing up with a scream of pain.
“Oh god, he got through, oh fucking—” A grunt screams in pain before his voice gurgles and goes dead, the second limb strikes the head and mashes it, long spikes shooting through the helmet. The other spiky humanoids shoot forward, though a few are not spiky, but covered in scrap metal, though one is just the same blue jacketed punk they’ve seen around, a girl studded with metal, but now she’s moving and pointing a finger at them and—
There’s a pop and the tip of the punk’s finger, encased in metal, flares and one of the grunt’s helmet’s flinches as a hole appears dead center… Another big spiky humanoid reaches out with big spiky arms and bear hugs two grunts, making them scream as the arms close together… One, a blonde girl, immediately points up and a ragged, thin, pillar of piping shoots from the nearby wall and through another grunt, and a pair of metal studded punks with face tattoos move in perfect synergy, one covered in blades and ax heads moving and chopping off limbs, the other detonates something on their person and peppers the grunts with metal shards like some sort of flechette bomb…
Hock hides in a filthy corner behind a dumpster crouched with his hands on his head, the two other ACS suits behind him, also cowering, hearing the screams, the gunfire, and the strange metallic sounds, the frequent rain-on-tin sound of metal pieces hitting the dumpster—
Suddenly it goes quiet, chaos into silence.
Hock opens an eye, shaking, very obviously fearful, glancing out to see several clean-cut pieces of the grunt and the sizable puddle of blood the pieces lie in, the blood trickling into each crack and crevasse of the grimy concrete, looking dark and molasses like in the dimness… and he sees the two NA suits, hiding behind a trash can on the other side of the alley, one wounded—
The dumpster shakes, rises and is pulled up by the big spiky metal figure, making the suitwalkers squawk… except for Hock, who, while sweating and panicked, manages to stand up, seeing just how big the fucking goddamn man is—
“Get up,” the spiky figure commands. The suits don’t respond, still shaking and fearful, now raising their hands and making babbling offers of money for their lives… but Hock speaks out, voice wavering, but mostly irritated, as he knows what’s going to happen next.
“Alright, what do you assholes want?” Hock started, trying to stand tall and failing. “We don’t…”
Hock was intending on telling whoever this clan was that they had no money or market tags, but an inkling of what they were after is proven correct when the big spike figure, obviously the leader, motions with a spike covered fist at Arthur Jack, Hock’s supervisor and the overseer of the swap and then at him, speaking.
“This must be the suitwalker in charge,” Brick says, the metal spikes on his face wilt and retreat into metal, revealing his hard, brown-red face, which is now smug. “And you must be the comms guy, right?”
Hock’s words died in his throat, resurfacing a bit after he glances at Jack.
“Yeah…”
“And I’ll bet a sizable tithe, none of you motherfuckers have a license or a deal with one Stome Orre to make any swaps or trades on our turf, do you?” Brick inquires, voice taking on an ironic hallway supervisor tone. The other nailboys behind him chuckle. Hock remembers with sudden horror that this is a metalworking clan’s cell, that of the nailboys, a particularly dangerous and sturdy clan from what was known as The Needle House. Hock says nothing, staring at the main nailboy’s pale green eyes for a second before turning at Jack, who was still cowering, less so after the nailboys didn’t immediately bolt them to the walls via their eye sockets, but he only meets Hock’s gaze with uncertainty.
“Well?” Brick intones, propping his spike fists on his hips (or where they would be), while the other nailboys stand by, smiling like smug little bastards, the other big bastard is standing before the NA suitwalkers, making sure they don’t run. Hock sighs and says nothing for a second, instead meeting the nailboy’s green eyes, and speaking dejectedly:
“I’ll call my superiors…”
It’s a common tactic for clans or companies operating in any unauthorized capacity to be held hostage if they were caught. Technically, it was an operations dispute: A non-station police organization conducting unauthorized business in a zone they were not licensed do so in had to pay immediate damages to main identified group in charge. Initially, this was a tactic the companies used to nail stripwalkers and other ‘undesirables’ they wanted off the station or accounted for or competing organizations and companies… but soon the clans began to do the same, more so when they started also putting in the proper paperwork. Mercenary and secboy crews were obviously set to tussle, so it was rare for them to be pulled into a dispute, but trying to dispute armed conflict was much easier said than done on the station…
The NA suitwalkers were bought out quickly, suits in Jobland paying the fines and then the suitwalkers immediately scampered out of the alley like roaches, cursing and grumbling, but more so glad to be alive. The ACS, as Brick expected, was cheaper, not eager to drop any money to any pissant clans—
“—you’ll have to provide proof of your license,” a warm sounding legal drone chattered through an open line, making Hock slap his hand over his face in frustration. Brick remained stone faced, but inwardly chuckled at the suitwalkers dealing first hand with their shitty, cheap company. Human life wasn’t worth much to ACS.
“You are aware they’ll be able to kill us, right?” Hock spoke, irritated, hoping there would be a peek of humanity poking through that generically warm voice—
“Do not worry, we are working as fast as we can, Mr. Hock,” the legal drone chattered, not slowing or changing, making Hock sigh. “The offended clan will have to provide—”
“Look, you fucking robot,” Hock cut in angrily, talking to the concrete to face away from the smug nailboys, all while the other two suits—Jack and the wireboy Denzer—watched him move nervously, wringing their hands, pacing… “I need to talk to a manager, I have a level 3 supervisor right here, Mr. Arthur Jack, Number—”
Hock irritably waves Jack on over, who nervously speaks out his ID code. There’s a chime, and Hock is considering asking the nailboy to just step on his head of it loops back to the legal drone again, after the fourth goddamn time—
Suddenly Hock hears a click, and a woman’s cold voice comes on.
“What is it?” a voice Hock recognizes as Jo Gessler barks. Jo is a bitch and a career hungry fucker, but Hock almost melts with joy at the sound of her sexless voice.
“It’s Hock,” Hock starts. “Me, Jack and Denzer are being held up by some nailboys. They’ve already set their price, please, for the love of god, have Viktor or Mashimi pay it—”
Gessler laughs. “Too bad fuckboy, none of you are worth the price. You should have picked a better place for that—”
“The Northstar fuckwits picked this cell,” Hock cut in but Gessler did the same.
“Not my problem fuckboy,” she laughs again. “Hope you have fun there sweet—”
“We were swapping a 4E,” Hock cuts in quickly before she hangs up, words turning vicious. “4E! Hear that, bitch?4E!!! They find out you lost a 4E, Thurman will skin you alive!”
Jo’s laughter dies. For a second Hock feels a scream rising, sure she hung up anyways… but her voice comes on, tired and pissed off.
“Goddammit!!”
“That’s right,” Hock replies, triumphant, relieved, and increasingly bold. “And we didn’t get to make the transfer, because the fuckwits took too long and I’d really like to not have these nailboys here fuck our asses with metal, OK?”
She sighs. “Fine, gimmie a second.”
There’s some faint murmuring and some angry back and fourths… and then Gessler comes back, sounding even more tired. “Payment’s going through.”
Hock feels a massive weight leave his shoulders, more so when the nailboys visibly relax and begin trotting away, now disinterested in the piss soaked suitwalkers. Hock goes to speak, happy… when Gessler speaks, this time sounding less tired, which makes Hock tense again.
“Alright, you boys are home free, except…”
Hock pauses, feeling a chill go up spine.
“…except for you Hock,” Gessler finishes, happy she can resume being a bitch. “You’re out.”
“What?” Hock starts, alarmed. “The fuck do you mean?”
“Terminated,” Gessler clarifies. “The boys upstairs think you fucked up.”
“Wait, wait, how the fuck—” Hock begins, panic edging his voice, but Gessler cuts him off.
“Dunno, don’t care. Your funds and passes have been revoked. Have a great day.”
“Wait, Jo, wait!”
There’s the soft click of death, then nothing.
“Look, I’m very sorry, but someone had to take the fall and I think they picked you,” Jack replies apologetically, stepping into an ACS shuttle guarded with more PEMSEC boys, who came to liquify their dead. Hock stands to the side, kept at bay by the PEMSEC boys, who see him as a plain civvie now. “I wish I can do something, but I can’t.”
Hock is initially crestfallen, but remembering the fucker hiding behind him just minutes before, now looking smug and hell, brings his blood pressure back up.
“The hell you can’t!” Hock roars. “You were pissing your pants just minutes ago! I saved your asses!!”
Jack turns, halfway out of the shuttle, sighing.
“Look, at least you’re not a stripwalker! You’re just cut from ACS. Maybe this’ll be a better career move!”
“How the hell am I supposed to get out of this shithole?” Hock continues. “I try to leave and the spiff fuckers’ll toss me back in!”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Jack says, vanishing into the shuttle as it closes.
“I’ll remember this, you cowardly cocksucker!” Hock shouts, but by then the shuttle is already into the air with the PEMSEC boys, and immediately makes for the exit, leaving Hock standing on a dirty street corner, alone.
Probably shouldn’t have let my mouth run, Hock thinks, wandering now. If they had axed Jack, Hock might do the same, leave him boxed in a shithole… Jack wasn’t a spiteful person though, so there was still a chance was good as a reference… Hock wanders now, still fuming, eager to do something… punch something… fuck something… he walks blindly and almost trips on something, which reignites his fury, making him turn and angrily kick it… which only hurts his foot when his rubber loafer hits a heavy chunk of steel in the shape of an arm… A minute of angry cursing and grinding his teeth suddenly gives Hock pause. It was a hunk of metal on one of those nailboys. Fresh anger boiling, Hock looks up and sees a faint trail of metal tossed carelessly on the already filthy sidewalk, going quite a ways up… He begins walking, almost powerwalking, guided by anger… around a corner, and another corner… and he hears laughter… and goes around another corner to see the nailboys… the same ones, laughing and brushing up on one another, dancing in celebration, laughing at the piss drenched suitwalkers…
Hock begins walking faster after them.